Fucking Emma, calling me out. She was right, though. I did need to “be better.” More meticulous, more careful, more like I am in my normal life. And I need to think of a proper plan.

I also need to call Chris and check in properly. I got away with the coffee shop call yesterday, but tonight I need to Face-Time him from my hotel at nine p.m. His way of making sure I am not with anyone I shouldn’t be.

Luckily, my twin had expensive taste and an appetite for the finer things. I pile up pillows around the headboard of the spare room bed. Dig out a huge tray from the cupboard under the stairs and lay it up with a plain white plate, silverware, an apparently ironed napkin from the kitchen drawer. Leah must have a cleaner—no one in their right mind irons napkins themselves—and I must figure out when she’s next going to turn up at the house. I am careful about how I stage the scene: a little smear of ketchup on the plate and a bread roll shredded into pieces. A half-drunk glass of wine to complete the look. I change into the fluffy white robe hanging in the guest wardrobe. Luckily, it’s plain, not embroidered with a hotel’s crest. Obviously not stolen then—I guess Leah had more class than that.

Balancing my laptop on a cushion, I make sure it really does look like I’m in a hotel, stuffed full of room-service burger, before dialing my husband. He is in our living room, his computer on the arm of the sofa. A sudden pang of homesickness strikes me. Not for him. For that sofa and the place where I actually feel like me.

“Hey, Meggie.” I can see that he isn’t looking at his laptop; he’s watching TV over the top. So much for spending an hour setting the scene. “How’s it going?”

“Good.”

“Cool.” His voice is distant. He’s not listening to me either. “So, I’m going to be away from Friday, probably till next Wednesday. We good?”

“Sure. You remember that client I mentioned yesterday?” I pause, I know he wasn’t listening before. “Anyway, I need to put in a huge amount of work to prep a series of workshops for him. It might give me an edge at promotion time if I can pull it off, but I need to work all weekend.”

“You staying in town?”

“Yes.” I hold my breath, fingers crossed behind my back that he’ll buy it and accept the excuse for my absence this weekend.

“But you’ll be home next Friday?” There’s an edge there, a challenge in his tone.

“I’ll be home.”

“Steak?” He says it like a question. We both know it’s a demand.

“Yep.” The same as every second Friday. I wouldn’t dare deviate from his routine.

“See you next Friday then. Love you,” he says.

“Love—” But he’s already hung up before I can finish my lie.

Chris and I have been married for just over three years. We spend between four and five nights apart each week: one or both of us traveling for business, to attend a conference, to work at a client’s other office. I do a fair bit of work with the Dubai branch of my consultancy and so do a lot of my work on a Sunday as it’s their first working day of the week. So, Chris and I have a ritual where we always ensure we are at home in Guildford every other Friday evening. That is “date night,” a term I hate as it sounds so damn forced. Like, this is the night that we will “have fun,” “be a couple” or, my most hated, “reconnect in a physical way.” Scheduled sex is never satisfying sex. Not that we have scheduled any for a while now. Guess he was getting enough from Leah.